


a certain something

by JaguarCello



Series: Cause and Effect [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: First Kisses, Fluff, Gen, I have no idea, M/M, NSFW, Smut, e.e. cummings - Freeform, poetic babies, ridiculous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:02:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which they both use their initiative and realise that when Courf is trying to find out about love (because Romney comparisons hurt everyone) that he is actually looking for Jehan</p><p> <a href="http://subjolrastic.tumblr.com/post/43895489497/smile-with-the-sunflowers-a-jehan-prouvaire">have a fanmix</a> to listen to as you read</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Courf, in his self-declared position as “the slutty pansexual who is the glue of the group”, had fooled around with most of les amis. He considered it to be a sort of gesture of friendship – “buddy blowjobs” was a phrase that he used far too much, and his friends  (although Joly had tried to start a programme called Safe Sex in the City, and had gone as far as to _speak to his professor_ about it) were cool with this, once they’d stopped freaking out (because okay, no matter how good a friend you are with someone, there are probably boundaries in the real world). But he’d never touched Enjolras (for obvious reasons – he valued his life), or Grantaire (because consent).

And he’d only kissed Jehan when he was sober, which meant a lot probably. Or it meant nothing at all.

 Jehan had always blushed painfully to hear Courf talk about his exploits, although at least he’d stopped squirming as if in pain (okay so what, Courf liked talking about fucking – but then Jehan probably called it “making love” or some such godawful phrase) and looking like he might cry.  Courf’s crudeness bothered him, then, and it always upset him that Jehan felt like that about the crudeness because – well, he didn’t really know why. But there was a feeling at the bottom of his stomach, and it wasn’t just the Corinthe’s terrible bread.

  So, nobody ever took him seriously, which was the way he liked it. If he saw a pretty person (for although he preferred boys, he still appreciated a beautiful girl  just as much) he’d endeavour to add them to his “collection” – a phrase he’d used until Enjolras had made a pointed comment about him having a “binder full of women… and men”, and okay so the Romney connotations made him think – everyone hated Romney, obviously. That was when he’d started paying attention to the people he slept with, and he’d realised that love might actually be a thing.

He’d obviously heard of love, and he’d loved many beautiful girls and boys – for as soon as they fell laughing into his bed, he’d laugh with them – but he’d never been in love. Courfeyrac decided, there and then, to learn about Love. He asked Combeferre, who gave him a book on human relationships (very boring but suggested interesting sexual dynamics) and a box of hankies – which was just _rude_. Feuilly had sneaked a glance over at Bahorel, and muttered something about how “you won’t mind if they’re argumentative or, always bruised, or had awful fashion taste, you know? Like they’ll just be… themselves and that’s fine,” and had folded a rose out of a newspaper, and told him to give it to the “unlucky victim” and wow, someone was grumpy today. And unappreciative of that time Courf had spent a whole night complimenting his ass.

 Marius had almost jumped in the air (terrifying since he was all limbs and gangly self-awareness) and started jabbering at breakneck speed about soulmates and hearts and desire – and Cosette smiled at him and pressed her hand to the small of his back, before smiling softly at Jehan in the corner. (Had he missed another orgy? Again?)

Éponine and Grantaire, sitting together and smoking, rolled their eyes in union. Ép declared it a “waste of time, and only fools fall in love,” and Grantaire had smirked and said “love is a lie that we tell ourselves in the dark when we’re afraid of dying,” but with a sour note that suggested perhaps he was bullshitting slightly, and he threw his eyes over to where Enjolras usually sat (for today, he was at a meeting with Father Mabeauf about promoting the orphanage)

Musichetta had said “Love is made in the gritty ups and downs of being with someone who is as flawed as you,” and Joly had smiled at her because he and she and Bossuet were not perfect, but “perfect for each other despite our flaws,” as he’d whispered to her in the night once when she was crying – and Bossuet simply pulled them both closer to him, and murmured something about serendipity.

 So, that hadn’t exactly been much help – he had gibberish guff and cynical comments, but nothing about how to find (or avoid) it.

 Jehan had been curled up in the corner with a book of poetry, and today he was wearing yellow jeans and a pink jumper with rabbits on it, which was hideous. But Jehan had that note of delicateness about him – he was tall, but skinny, and his wristbones stuck out where the sleeves of the monstronsity had fallenback slightly; his skin was gossamer. Or some poetic shit, probably.

 “Jehan, light of my life, what are you reading?” Courf flung himself over the sofa to land next to him to peer over his shoulder. The book was old and had been mended (inexpertly) more than once, and he couldn’t see the cover for the sticky tape that bound it. He leaned futher over Jehan’s shoulder, tucking his chin into the cleft when neck met shoulder, and hair tickled his face (because he’d neglected to tie it up today), and then he breathed in and realised that Jehan smelled of the rose-water shower gel Courf had bought him for Christmas..

He leaned back again, and forced himself to calm down. Seriously, he’d always known how attractive Jehan was (and softly-spoken little forest creature that he was, who could blame him?), and kissing him was maybe one of his top three activities (although he could never think up good enough excuses)  and when he was sure that his body wouldn’t betray him, he leaned back over.

 ““To be nobody but   
yourself in a world   
which is doing its best day and night to make you like   
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle   
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”

 and then below this (e.e. cummings, apparently, and Courf thought about the turtle brooch that Jehan had put in his hair, and his yellow jeans, and maybe he understood), in Jehan’s neat script, “you shine like the sun on the trolleys in the river, you glitter like the moon in a landfill – you are a pearl amongst oysters, a breath of wind in a stilted shadow – “ and Jehan slammed the book shut.

 Courf looked at him, full in the face, and noticed that he had faint constellations of freckles across his nose. “What do you know about love, Prouvaire?” he asked, and Jehan uncurled himself and stood to go, but turned at the doorway as if to see why he wasn’t being followed – and that was weird, the fact that the poet had no words for once – and so Courf stood too and followed him, stashing the book under a cushion.

 “Smoke break,” he shot in answer to Chetta’s raised eyebrows (who knew about the blindingly obvious feelings for each other, especially since when they were drunk they’d phone her individually and cry about it), and shut the door behind him. Today, they were in his and Marius’ flat, which was across the hall from Jehan’s (who currently lived alone in the flat – apart from his words and his kittens, obviously – but there were tentative plans to move Cosette in with him), and he lead the way down the stairs to the grass below. It was warm, even though it was February; the crocuses and daffodils were just starting to appear from the ground. Courf preferred flowers to be ostentatious, though, and so he longed for the days when the enormous roses that Jehan had planted up the side of the building (nobody was sure who even owned the place, but they imagined that they did).

  “So, Prouvaire, tell me about love,” he said simply, and Jehan simply closed his eyes and shoved his hand (nails painted green with tiny kitten faces, which was a new low for decency in Courfeyrac’s opinion) to Courf’s, turning it over so that the words which spidered across his palm could be read.

 “I’m in Paris with you,” and Courf wished that he knew more poetry (at least he assumed it was poetry because okay he knew where he was) so that he could reply, but instead he just took the hand, and kissed it (because he’d been forced to watch enough Merlin that he knew what to do with beautiful people who say beautiful things), and then stood back and waited for a reaction.

 “I liked you from when we first met, you know. Where was it? Pancake day, the canteen - someone took the pancake off my plate before I could eat it, and you ran after him and retrieved it. And I just realised how made-up that sounds, like the kind of thing you’d find in a cheap romance novel. And maybe I’m fine with that? Like, I tried – I ran out of clichés to describe you.” Jehan paused, and curled his fingers round Courf’s. “And then you’d always be talking about your “conquests” and that day you bought me Keats for Christmas,” and he smiled at the little grey kitten he’d found under the tree, but went on: “and I told myself to stop being stupid. Because you’re – you’re a light, and I’m just – “ he folded his hands together, forgetting he had Courf’s trapped.

Courf tried not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Jehan, if I’m a light then you’re a light. And maybe that is a slight steal from the Notebook but it is a classic, and I know for sure that you’ve seen it _at least_ twelve times because I was there. And I know I hold your hand all the time and I know I kiss you (mostly when I’m drunk and that is not my fault) but I realised that I want to hold your hand for real. Like, I think you’re fucking brilliant.” and he grinned at Jehan, and Jehan smiled back because for everything Courf was, he definitely wasn’t a poet, and then Jehan pressed a light kiss to his cheek and the sun came out from the clouds that were drifting lazily across the sky.

 And Courf realised that love was the feeling when something slots into place (and he almost laughed at his own monologue then because sex), like a jigsaw piece you didn’t know was missing, and he wondered at all why he was trying to force uncooperative words into meaning because there was something Jehan did with his _tongue_ –

 

 


	2. le paradis n'est rien comparé à un des tes baisers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan and Courfeyrac aren't dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Becky, my sun and stars

Jehan and Courfeyrac weren’t dating. They held hands in the supermarket, and Courf would pick Jehan up to reach the chocolate milk (because only Enjolras was tall enough to reach those lofty heights, and he hated supermarkets), and they’d burrow under the covers when there was frost outside, and they were maybe a little naked, and if they kissed desperately, who was there to see? (And that was a question only to be ghosted to eachother between kisses, because Enjolras would probably have something to say about that).

 They weren’t dating when they had candlelit dinners, because clichés are fun to explore and necessary for poetry, Jehan insisted, as he tucked a napkin (with perhaps more _touching_ than was strictly necessary) into Courf’s lap. Dating meant, to Jehan, the possibility of something changing – becoming boyfriends, becoming nothing, and they were the only thing in the world that didn’t need to change. To Courfeyrac, it meant a one-night-stand, more often than not.

 So, they weren’t dating. Jehan had come up with a notebook-full of words to describe it, most in other languages, and he’d written them on Courfeyrac’s back in green ink whilst he slept. They preferred to just shrug when asked about it though, and Courfeyrac would wrap his arms around Jehan’s freckled shoulders and ignore any questions.

 “Labels? Fuck them, seriously,” he’d said out of the blue, when they were both still breathing heavily. He was looking vaguely at the words trailing around his ankle (he thought it was Neruda), and Jehan grinned up at him from where they were tangled together. “Fuck labels,” he agreed, and Courf laughed at that. He swore so much more when he was taking and being taken apart by Courfeyrac, hair tangled and hands fisting in the covers, for as he’d said “to each according to his needs, I need to touch you right now,” and well, that was more than fine (and who’d have known a man who worshipped e.e. cummings would be so _surprising_ in bed?).

 “No but,” Courf started, rolling over to trap Jehan between the sheets and his legs. “I know everyone else knows; I saw Combeferre see us – “ and Jehan cut him off with a soft kiss and a wicked grin. “Jehan, light of my life – and it’s actually true now so I can say it as much as I like – do you think we should tell them properly?”

 Jehan considered this in the same way he’d poise before writing, and nodded once, quickly. “I suppose so. But we’re not dating, okay?” and he looked as if he was prepared for Courf to sulk. Courf’s bottom lip begin to tremble (like a beech leaf in a gale, he thought), and he kissed away the grumpiness.

 “Don’t sulk,” he said, when he had drawn back to look Courfeyrac in the eye. “I want to be with you. I am with you, hell, you fill my waking thoughts and sleeping visions, and you always let me finish the cereal. But seriously, don’t you think we’re more than dating? Like… you know that bond Enjolras and Combeferre have – “

 Courfeyrac groaned then, lightly. “Can you please not bring them up when we’re in bed, it’s getting weird – “ but Jehan hit him, and he shut up.

 “You know, they’d die for each other. Not just because they’re so close, but because they would give up anything for the other. And I’d give up anything for you; I’d lose my words, I’d lose my eyes, I’d give up my hearing and I’d shun your (bad) singing – and oh, I’d die for you – “ and he sounds so serious that Courfeyrac draws him into his arms again and kisses him until they’re both breathless and greedy.

 “We’re not dating.” he agrees solemnly, and then brightened. “Since we’re not dating, and you earn more than me, does that mean we don’t have to keep splitting the coffee costs?” and Jehan (who usually has so many words in him that sometimes he _shakes_ with the need to write, that he can’t sleep until he’s put trembling pen to paper), snorts.

 

 


	3. you are my mender of broken things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses in the park, spring flowers, interesting words.  
> Also, bastardised Shakespeare in the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's spring aka Jehan time  
> forgive me pls

Jehan had moved into Courfeyrac’s flat with the same easiness with which they kissed – an almost-lazy indulgence, spending an hour packing his wind-chimes up, lingering over the cacti, but leaving the (vegetarian) food behind for Marius, who had phoned Courfeyrac at four in the morning to tell him that “if I spend another hour away from Cosette I literally might die like what if I had a heart condition, Courf? What if you found me _dead_ on the floor one morning when you came downstairs for your Cheerios?”, and so had been moved into Jehan’s old flat. Cosette had somehow obtained “permission” from her father (whom Grantaire had met once, and was terrified of enough that the rest of them steered clear – apart from Bahorel, who liked to challenge him to feats of strength) to move in with him, and Joly had solemnly presented them with a packet of condoms and a lecture on noise pollution.

“Oh, and please remember to floss your teeth – “ he’d managed to say, before fleeing the (definitely not health and safety approved) scene in front of him to watch Holby City curled around Musichetta and Bossuet – because “the inaccuracies alone are sufficient brain bleach”, and ignoring Marius and Cosette.

 Luckily, they were across the hall from Jehan and Courfeyrac, who could more than match them for making noise. Bahorel had once suggested that this was a slightly unhealthy competition, after Cosette had strained her throat (and Marius had sprained a leg muscle) one night – but since nobody wanted to ask, the protests were soon drowned out.

 Cosette and Jehan got on like a house on fire, swapping notes about Marius and Courfeyrac (who, under pressure and the influence of some fairly good weed, admitted that they had kissed a few times when they first met but “nothing serious I mean he wasn’t that good, don’t worry Jehan,” to which Cosette had responded by kissing Marius until his ears turned red, and then dragged him across the hall and shutting the door. That had been yesterday, and Courfeyrac and Jehan had had to get away from the _noise_ that most definitely was just to prove that Marius was a good kisser.

When Grantaire and Enjolras were arguing, or Bahorel had challenged Cosette’s father Valjean to an arm wrestle (furniture was smashed, and Bahorel still won’t talk about it), or Bossuet had set the smoke alarm off, or Éponine was having a fight with another irreputable boyfriend, their building was almost impossible to live in. Everyone had their own escape routes – Grantaire favoured under the bridge, Combeferre the library, Feuilly the museum, Joly with his boxset of ER – but Courfeyrac and Jehan preferred to stay with their friends.

 Their usual places of refuge – Grantaire’s, Enjolras and Combeferre’s (although he’d been suspiciously absent as of late)– had suddenly become full of (from the thuds and crashes) alarming athletic sex, especially considering Grantaire had smoker’s lungs – and so they’d been forced, for the sake of their ears and sanity, to retreat outside.

 “I can’t quite believe Enjolras and Grantaire – if I hadn’t seen the way Enjolras had _removed_ his shirt with his teeth the other night, I’d think that R was just daydreaming again,” Jehan murmured into Courfeyrac’s throat. “And I’m sure Enjolras paid a deposit for that headboard. But anyway – enough of them. I want to hear about you and Marius, and this long-ago dalliance – “ and he rolled over to sit on Courfeyrac’s chest, the knees of his lilac trousers dampened by the grass.

 Courfeyrac snorted, and placed a wonky grass circlet on Jehan’s head. “I wouldn’t call it a “dalliance”, we literally kissed twice and it was a drunk thing mostly and yeah – “ He broke off, and looked at Jehan, catching a strand of his hair in-between his fingers and winding it round his hand.“You’re not _jealous_ , are you? It was ages ago – “

 Jehan pressed a finger to his lips. “Firstly, there’s nothing wrong with the word “dalliance.” I mean, it’s got nothing on “assuage”, or “halcyon” – and that reminds, me,  I like your picture from today.” He reached into the pocket of his cardigan (stolen from his own floor, and Courfeyrac had just smiled at him in the blissed-out way he had when Jehan had taken him apart), and pulled out his phone. “apricity” – the warmth of the sun in winter.” He looked back at Courfeyrac, who was looking at him as if he’d “put the stars in the skies”, he’d whispered into his skin one night. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Courfeyrac had started taking photos of things for Jehan, for when he was stuck in class or traffic or for ideas. Spotted dogs, sun-dials, the glint of light on a keyring, raindrops forming beads of water on tulip leaves outside the supermarket, interesting words, candle-wax, the way the light caught the paving stones, sparrows drinking from puddles, anything that made his heart sing.

  He’d stopped outside the second-hand bookshop, which Jehan frequented and Courfeyrac himself had been told not to return to after he’d dragged Bossuet in to help him find a first edition of Kipling, and Bossuet had somehow knocked a vase of flowers onto a photograph of Sylvia Plath. There was a sort of “word of the day” board outside, scrawled in chalk on a faded blackboard, and the sunlight hit the words (written in green, today) – it wasn’t warm, although spring had begun a few days ago. There was hoarfrost on the pavements (a word Jehan had written in Sharpie on his ankle one day, and then licked off with his tongue), and the buds of bluebells were just starting to burst through the ground. The sun was warm on the back of his neck, though, so he snapped a photo for Jehan. “Come to the park,” he’d added, and now they were stretched out under a hazel tree with yellow bursts of blossom waving above them.

Courfeyrac looked up at the clouds that were drifting across the swathe of blue.  “I was trying to work out the other day, how long we’ve been not-dating. I mean, since we told the others (not that any of them reacted), it’s only been a week, hasn’t it?” He looked back at Jehan.

 “No, it’s been eight days, and I know that because it’s on my calendar. Also, because we decided that two days before Enjolras and Grantaire had sex for the first time, and I’m not going to say making love because it wouldn’t be, for them. I mean, we can all see the hickeys and the bite-marks and the bruises on Grantaire’s hips when he wanders around in that stupid pair of jeans, and I’m willing to bet the whole of the northern hemisphere has heard the headboard on the wall.” He shrugged.  “I’m happy for them, but this honeymoon stage – I’m not sure how long it can last. I mean, R’s still drinking. Enjolras is still doing nothing but work, interrupted by the odd orgasm now, but they’re going to fight and the fallout will be horrible – “

 Courfeyrac sighed, and reached out to brush the wisps of hair (slipped loose from today’s messy bun, because “fuck binary gender theory”, Jehan had said, once Cosette had done it for him). He kissed his finger and reached out to dot the freckles across his nose. “My lovely one – and yes, I have indeed read Neruda because sometimes you whisper his words in your sleep – they’re. Well, you’re the wordsmith, but they’re opposites. They rotate in entirely different spectrums, in terms of goals and passions. Grantaire wants Enjolras to look at him the same way he looks at him – “

 “Why are pronouns a thing? Seriously? But god, the look in R’s eyes that time Enjolras threw him out – you know when you see those adverts on telly, of puppies thrown in canals? It was like that.” He drew his fingernails lightly across Courfeyrac’s collarbones,  on display because unless wearing a bow tie, he seemed incapable of doing up his shirts – not that Jehan was complaining. He went on. “I mean, god,  Grantaire’s the inverse of Enjolras. “Opposites attract” and all that, though? But I don’t want to be around for their first “couple” fight. God, imagine the hate sex –“

 Courfeyrac sat up. “Are you imagining them having sex now? Because I am too. I know for a fact that Bossuet, and by god it would be him, walked in on them apparently quoting literature to each other during blowjobs. That is not a thing that real people do, seriously. They’re behaving like fictional characters themselves, let alone copying from Victorian melodramas – we have enough dramatics as it is– “

Jehan surged forwards and kissed him, and he tasted of the lemon cake he’d bought from the stall opposite Starbucks, because as Enjolras had once said, “We have to make the tax-dodging corporations _pay_ for what they did. Make a statement. Lecture them about tax, or obviously and obnoxiously go elsewhere – “ but they’d never heard the end because Grantaire had thrown a bread roll at his head and the meeting had dissolved into chaos.

Courfeyrac had complained vocally about Jehan’s choice of cake, which was possibly their first argument.“I don’t get carrot cake. Why would you put a vegetable in a cake? Literally what the fuck?” to which Jehan had replied smoothly “Don’t eat it then, idiot,” and peace was restored, because they were two puzzle pieces and “cake rarely spoils puzzles,” Jehan had said.

Leaning back slightly, Jehan placed a crown of buttercups onto Courfeyrac’s curls. “Well, I’ll grant that quoting – who was it this time? Grantaire identifies far too much with Heathcliff for it to be healthy – to each other in the bedroom might not be orthodox, but then if they could see what we get up to – “ Courfeyrac blushed almost painfully, and looked beyond Jehan’s head, to the swallows returning from their winter in Africa above them.

  “I can’t believe how crude I used to be, you know. I mean, I don’t doubt you heard about my “collection”, mostly because when Éponine was seeing Montparnasse, he wrote it on the toilet walls of every toilet in the entire fucking university (but then you’ve seen him naked and you laugh about it so really who wins?)– but you’ve changed me. God, I used to drink only Skittles vodka! Now, I worship at the shrine of the strawberry and lime cider!” He paused, and kissed Jehan, long and lingering. “I’m very glad about that. And anyway, I still get to taste your rainbow –“ Jehan bit his ear, sharp. He had the grace to look contrite. “Forgive me for that terrible pun.” He looked down, and then his gaze brightened.

  “You know how you do self-defence and all that? Lately I’ve been finding myself wanting to learn- “

 “No you haven’t, you just like the idea of me jumping you – “

 “Did you ever learn to fence? Because holy _shit_ I could get behind that, pun most definitely intended – “ and Jehan sighed at him. “I can’t fence. Plus, you’re so ridiculously similar to Mercutio that I don’t want to let you anywhere near a sword –“

 “Ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a grave man – or is it shall? I can never remember – “ Jehan kissed him again, and whispered “stop bastardising Shakespeare,” lips curving into a smile and hands tracing the lines of his face, before climbing off from where he was now in his lap, and standing. Courfeyrac almost tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to follow.

 “My fair maiden – “ he said, extending a hand to Courfeyrac, who curtsied. “I can’t believe that Éponine called me Maid Marian once. Mind you, she did accompany it with my now-catchphrase, “lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets”, so you do have her to thank. Anyway. Self-defence.”

 Courfeyrac bowed, long and low, in a mockery of respect. His hair flopped forwards, and the daisies slipped to the floor; his spine, protruding because he could eat his body weight in burgers and never gain weight, disappeared under the neck of his shirt – today, striped. Jehan swallowed once, and nodded to himself, slipping the last sweet from his candy necklace (clashing wonderfully with the rabbits on Courfeyrac’s cardigan) into his mouth, and watching Courfeyrac’s eyes fix on his lips.

 “You _bastard_ tease,” Courfeyrac half-whined, but Jehan only smiled.

 “You have to try to attack me, as a demo. Pretend I’m some murdering thug – “ and Courfeyrac muttered under his breath “is this roleplay, or is this self-defence? Do you just still fancy Montparnasse? 2009 was a dark time for us all –“ until Jehan threw the bottle of ginger beer (empty) at his chest. He raised an eyebrow at the drop of dirt now staining his shirt, slipped the braces off his shoulders, and stopped.

“For Frodo,” he said simply, and charged.

 He managed to get one arm around Jehan’s waist, hands grasping at the hip-bone poking out from his low-slung floral leggings, before he found himself crashing to the floor with a dull thud, knocking all the wind of out him. Jehan returned to sitting on his chest as if it were his home, holding his wrists to the floor with his hands. “I surrender,” Courfeyrac whispered. “Do with me what you will,” and Jehan dived forwards to kiss him with all the strength in his body, until Courfeyrac _mewled_ at him and bit his lip, and until a man (trying to read the Daily Mail in peace, apparently) came over to complain, and Courfeyrac thew the ginger beer bottle at him, and they ran across the park, whooping and laughing louder than the children furiously fighting kites against the wind.

 “I’ve made my home in the crevices of your body, in the crinkles of your cheeks and the backs of your knees, and the smell of your hair when you’ve just washed it using my shampoo,” and Jehan broke off and sniffed at Courfeyrac’s hair, and beamed  - “and the way you roll your eyes if Cosette makes us watch Game of Thrones again because “awesome as Cersei is, we have seen this twenty-two times and just because you’re a Khaleesi, Cosette – “ and the way you laugh when you remember something important that’s sitting on the kitchen table at home.” He shrugged, and kissed Courfeyrac again, rejoicing in the fact that he could do this, that he wasn’t being personally offended by the lack of crocuses this year (last year had been a dark time for him), that Courfeyrac hadn’t bothered to do up his shirt properly that morning.

 “You are my mender of broken things,” Courfeyrac promised, almost reverently, and smiled. 


	4. ce petit coeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discussion of first kisses and Tess of the d'Urbervilles. pancakes are eaten, and Jehan actually stops Courf from quoting Neruda.

It was a Tuesday morning, and Jehan and Courfeyrac had skipped class to watch the first of the ducklings hatch in the pond. Marius and Cosette had a free period – supposedly for work, but more often used for kisses, and so they’d decided to investigate a new café that had opened. The pancake house was small, tucked away in a side-street next to a healthfood shop and a jeweller, and the sign outside was bright enough that the grey clouds gathered overhead seemed slightly less threatening. A bell tinkled above the door as Cosette pulled it open, and as she led the way (followed by Jehan in a yellow playsuit, Courfeyrac with matching bow tie, and Marius clutching a paper bag full of books from Oxfam), her brogues tracked muddy footprints – because Jehan had forced them to walk through the park to look for buds on the beech trees – across the floor.

 Éponine, standing behind the counter, in an apron, with a mop in one hand and a pen in the other, sighed. “Before you laugh – and _don’t_  say you won’t, because Courf I can _see_ your mouth twitching – I’m here because Gavroche wants a new bike. I mean, not that I should have to justify anything to you lot but. Yeah, it’s not like a long-term thing. Well, it’s been a year, but. Combeferre –“ and Jehan shot her a look that was unreadable to everyone else, but made her cheeks redden – “got me some leaflets about going back to school, and I think I might do that. So.” She grabbed a handful of menus (pink) from the side and handed one to each of them, before gesturing to a table in the corner. The faint sound of Simon and Garfunkel drifted across from the radio.

 Courf dived for the sofa, pulling Jehan with him and leaving Marius and Cosette to take the armchairs (bulging with cushions of all patterns and prints) opposite them. The walls were patterned with bright leaves and flowers, woven together in a shambles of colour, and baskets of bluebells and primroses sat on each table next to the cutlery. Jehan smiled, and reached for the menu, the sleeve of his jumper (possibly stolen from Courfeyrac, although neither bothered to separate their clothes) dipping in a patch of sugar left on the table. He smiled wickedly, and licked it off, keeping his eyes fixed on Courfeyrac and his hand tight on his thigh.

 “Okay, pancakes!”, Marius exclaimed, trying to ignore the fairly blatant seduction going on in front of him. He opened the menu with a flourish, mouth falling open as he saw the list of foods. “Ye gods,” he whispered reverently, stabbing a finger at the list of sundaes. “I – I was so sure of my convictions when I came in – “ and Courfeyrac interrupted to mutter darkly about “that time you championed Thatcher and Enjolras threw a plate at your head” – “but now, well. I just don’t know – sundaes, or pancakes, or waffles? Someone make a decision for me?”

 Cosette steepled her fingers together under her chin. “So, ignoring what Enjolras would probably say about autonomy – not that he can talk because I know way too much about his and Grantaire’s arrangement and _wow_ – we should definitely go for waffles. And pancakes, and crepes. Oh, and a sundae. This is a _local_ business so we need to prop it up –“ and she closed the menu decisively. Marius looked at her like she’d moved heaven and Earth.

 Éponine, who had been leaning on the counter in an attempt to look nonchalant, nodded at them and shouted their order in the general direction of, they assumed, the kitchen. “Where’s the manager?” Courfeyrac asked, and she shrugged.

 “I don’t know, actually. Apparently he’s ill. Fading fast.” She didn’t look worried, though. “Won’t last the week,” she added, and Marius twisted round in amazement.

 “Your boss is dying, and you don’t care?” Cosette frowned at him.

  Éponine rolled her eyes. “It’s more that quite frankly, I know for a fact that he’d talked about leaving it to me because I’m a “fantastic” waitress – “ and Courfeyrac nudged Jehan and whispered something about blowjobs.

 Her eyes hardened. “Look, first of all my sex life is none of your concern, because I don’t feel the need to announce to the world exactly how many times I’ve given blowjobs today –“ she frowned at Courfeyrac, who wilted under her glare – “and second, even if I did sleep with him – which I didn’t – doesn’t mean you get to judge me. You’ve slept with half the country, did someone say double standard?– sorry, Jehan,” and he smiled sweetly at her because he didn’t care, and she went on. “I’m serving your fucking food, okay? Be nice,” and she was half-smiling now, which was infinitely more terrifying.

 Courfeyrac nodded. “Sorry,  Ép. I didn’t think. And hey, that’s great man, I’m glad – “ but Jehan bit his ear, and he looked up at her. “I’m really sorry.” He shifted backwards on the sofa slightly, and pulled out his phone. Éponine rolled her eyes but nodded, and sat down next to him. “Who’re you texting?”

 He looked up. “Oh, Grantaire. He’s apparently stressing out because he’s not got a sign for the protest this week, and he has to find a suit without holes in, and he has to go for dinner with Enjolras where he thinks he won’t be allowed to drink. He misspelled “help” so I’d say he is worried.” He tapped out a reply. “I told him to stay calm and ask Combeferre.” He looked back up at the group.

 “Courf, you can’t just _leave_ him like that. Ponine, can you phone Combeferre and ask him? He tends to prefer replying to you – “ and a damp teatowel flew across the table and hit Marius on the head, who shut up wisely. Cosette snorted, shot Éponine a quick thumbs-up, and rolled her eyes. “Give me your phone,” and Courf held it out without a word.

 She tapped out a message with a smirk, and handed the phone back, the charms on her bracelet chinking as she did so. Éponine, sighing, stood up to collect the food from the counter. “Here you go, and I’m having some too,” she told them, handing Courfeyrac and Jehan a spoon each.

 Jehan looked at the strawberry sundae, and grinned. Reaching out to hold the stalk, he held it out to Courf. “I would rather take it in my own hand,” Courfeyrac told him, grinning back. “And I _really_ hope this is just the seduction bit you’re doing, and not the abusive relationship. Well, as long as it’s abusive in the _fun_ way – “ but Jehan shoved the strawberry into his mouth. He chewed pensively.

 “You are the least politically correct person I know,” Cosette informed him, chewing on her praline pancake with a look of bliss that Marius seemed jealous of. “And Tess was a total victim of the patriarchy, and then what with Angel Clare’s fucking _idiotic_ habit of holding her up on a pedestal, she really had no chance at true happiness with either of them. If she’d thought of _him_ as a saviour (whether she needed one or not), well. Infatuation isn’t really love, is it?” Jehan nodded, and stole a glance at Éponine, who was determinedly not looking at Marius, and choosing to scrub the (clean) surface with an aggression that reminded him of her parents.

 “I mean, Angel tried to mould her into some perfect, pure, chaste thing. Not that being unchaste is imperfect, but you get my drift – in his mind she became someone very different to who she was. And he wanted the security she could offer, as a symbol of matrimonial bliss and so forth and wow, I’m really not over this.” He sniffed dramatically, and plucked a raspberry from Marius’s sundae, and put his other hand on Courfeyrac’s leg, and bit his lip almost as much as he bit the raspberry, until they were stained berry-red. Courfeyrac swallowed.

“Okay,” Marius interrupted, and Jehan looked up but didn’t remove his hand, instead choosing to walk his fingers up Courfeyrac’s thigh until he squirmed in his seat.

 “Stop it, by which I mean don’t,” Courfeyrac hissed under his breath. “You fucking tease, goddamnit, and it’s raining and wow you’re so – “ at which Marius rolled his eyes and pulled the plate of waffles towards him, ignoring everything apart from the chocolate sauce.

 Jehan snorted. “Marius, I’ve heard a lot about this long-ago romance you had with Courfeyrac and apparently, according to Feuilly (seriously, how does he find out all this? Blackmail?), you two could be pretty _affectionate_ –“

 Marius blushed until his freckles disappeared. “Okay, first of all, it was platonic because – “

 Courfeyrac interrupted with a crowing laugh. “Oh no, my friend, we were both drunk and you suggested we kiss just to “test” it so that I could teach you, and so we did and then we woke up naked on a patio in Knightsbridge,” and Jehan raised a single eyebrow at that. Cosette laughed at them; Marius tried to shrink into his shirt, but Courfeyrac trailed a finger along Jehan’s leg.

  Leaning forwards, Jehan kissed him – gently, at first, and then fisted his hands in his shirt to pull him bodily forwards. Courfeyrac responded with an alarming lack of decorum for a public space, and it was only when Éponine cleared her throat that they were parted, Jehan with Courfeyrac’s bow tie somehow removed with his teeth.

 Cosette rolled her eyes. “So, going back to the – what was the word you used in the text, Jehan? Dalliance? If you needed teaching, Marius, was Courf your first kiss?” She looked at him, and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. “And well, thanks Courfeyrac, because that boy can do things with his tongue that – “

Marius _winked_ at her, at which point Courfeyrac pretended to vomit onto the pancake plate, which was Éponine’s cue to come and start clearing the table, but Jehan jumped up to help her. “Who was your first kiss, Cosette?” he asked chirpily, stacking plates.

 Cosette shot a glance at Éponine. “I was – what, thirteen? and it was the last day of living with the Thènardiers before my dad adopted me. And I’d just finished packing my two tshirts, and well, we were a bit emotional, and we ended up kissing and it was a very nice afternoon– “ and Éponine shrugged and smiled at her.

 “It was nice, though, wasn’t it? Bit wet – “ and at that, Courfeyrac snickered, and was rapped on the knuckles with a fork for his trouble – “because we were crying, you idiot – but I do feel that platonic kisses should be a thing.” Marius nodded, eyes half-glassy, until Cosette waved a hand in his face.  

“Hey, hey, I hope you’re not fetishising my sexuality, because that’s not cool.” He looked at her, and she crinkled her nose. “I’m not one for labels, but I like girls as well, so thank you Éponine for allowing me to discover that – “

 Éponine smiled at her, coquettishly. “It was my pleasure,” and Courfeyrac groaned before seizing Jehan by the hand (from where it was hovering by the button on his chinos, because of course he wore chinos) and then standing. He rummaged in his pocket to extract a crumpled fiver, and Jehan pulled an embroidered purse from his bag and added another, and then they ran, the bell on the shop ringing manically in their wake.

 Outside, the clouds that had gathered had blackened, and raindrops started to pelt the pavement. Within a few minutes of leaving the pancake house (snatched kisses on corners, tasting sweet ice-cream and sharp raspberry and last cigarettes, hands grasping and desperate), Jehan’s playsuit had gone almost see-through. In typical fashion, he’d neglected to wear underwear today, which made it a lot harder for Courfeyrac to run – but they made it to their (and the novelty made Jehan’s pulse jump) building without being arrested.

 “How the hell is that playsuit legal? I mean if a Daily Mail reader saw you – “ and Jehan laughed against his lips, and pointed out that “It’s only see-through if you look in the right place -“ and Courf snarled against his neck that he was going to more than just _look_ in the right place, and then he’d picked him up (they were the same height, but Courfeyrac had been to the gym once at New Year and so fancied himself a strongman) and it was lucky that there weren’t many stairs, because Courfeyrac was crowding him back onto an obscene number of cushions –

 “I like your body when it is with my body,” Jehan told him matter-of-factly, and licked along his collarbone, then the v-shape where his shirt had been almost wrenched open. “Clothes off,” he added, and tugged the shirt over Courfeyrac’s hands, which was tricky because they were both working at the buttons.

 “How the fuck do I take this thing off? Seriously, it’s more counter-intuitive than the bedroom tax – “ and he slipped one shoulder off to kiss Jehan’s neck (and his rainbow necklace) but then sat up, disgruntled. “Right, if I undo the buttons – I’m not a physics student, I literally have no idea – that might work? Oh god, help,” he implored, and Jehan smirked wickedly beneath him before unbuttoning the playsuit, still damp from the rain, and throwing it to the heap of clothing next to dresser. Courfeyrac’s chinos soon joined it.

 “Do you have any idea what you were _doing_ to me in the café? With your fucking hands and the strawberries and the kissing?” Courfeyrac asked him, tracing patterns on his skin. “And okay, also, those fucking tattoos aren’t helping, and why am I not surprised you’ve got Panic at the Disco lyrics on your wrists? Think of my sanity – “ he half-growled, and Jehan tapped him on the nose.

 “It is so quite new a thing - muscles better and nerves more – “ he purred into his neck, and Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

 “I like your body,” he promised reverently, and then nudged Jehan’s hip. “Spread ‘em,” and at Jehan’s raised eyebrow, added “I like what it does,” and Jehan raised the other eyebrow and reached down to touch him, smirking as Courfeyrac _whined_ as he twisted his wrist, tattoos flashing in and out of sight as he moved -

 Jehan had noticed that when Courfeyrac got distracted, his words-to-mouth filter was practically disabled. Usually when playing video games or when stoned, he’d babble, but now Courfeyrac spoke every word to Jehan’s body like they were molten gold. “Okay, so I can’t remember poetry, but god, if I could write it, your body would inspire it – “ and then when Jehan kissed a trail down his chest he started to lose it. “Fuck, Jehan, I’m ridiculously fucking hard right now and if you do that I won’t be able to do anything and – what was it? I like to feel the spine of your body, and its bones,  and _fuck_ – “ and Jehan pressed a single finger to his lips.

 “Would you just shut up, and fuck me?” he asked, seriously, the same way he’d talk about the weather. Courfeyrac’s eyes grew wide, blown with lust, and he nodded. “I – “ but Jehan’s hands were clamped over his mouth, and he smelt of both of them, and he nodded once more.

 “Lube; not too much, and hurry up, because foreplay’s overrated right now,” ordered Jehan, and Courfeyrac reached for the bottle on the bedside table, and fumbled to open the new packet of condoms. Jehan (typically) used his teeth, which would have made Courfeyrac moan if he were not doing so already, and _god_ Jehan’s kisses were fire and heat and bursts of sunlight, and he was warm under his hands– and he was saying this aloud, he realised, as he bit on the white freckled skin of his shoulder –

 “I want to do with you – “ he started, and Jehan groaned and bucked and choked out “no Neruda, or that thing about nice guys finishing last won’t be true – “ and Courfeyrac marvelled that he could still talk, and moved his fingers faster until Jehan had thrown his head back, hair a mess of ribbons and curls, and then Jehan moved his hips and Courfeyrac moved his with him, and _fuck -_  

 “i like the thrill, of under me you so quite new”, Jehan whispered, and almost embarrassingly quickly Courfeyrac had choked off a moan and Jehan had _keened_ and his whole body had shaken, and Jehan had reached up to stretch his hands around Courfeyrac’s neck and bring their lips together from where they’d let lazy gasps for breath escape.

And he smiled into green eyes and he was blessed.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still but a maiden. pancakes lead to kisses it's basically science


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> strawberry and lime cider, treehouses, and Jehan is a kinky motherfucker (to clarify: not in the Oedipus way)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for Liz my sun my moon and all of my star
> 
> go read Catullus 16

Bahorel had declared himself in charge of the barbecue, as soon as Bossuet had suggested it. Apparently, there had been a "situation", according to Musichetta, involving lighter fluid and Bossuet's hair, which still hadn't grown back properly, and so he was banned - despite having had the idea as soon as he'd seen the tar on the roads melting in the heat - from going near. He didn't seem to mind, lounging as he was on a picnic blanket, his head in Joly's lap. Musichetta was applying suncream vigorously to Joly's pale back, pinching his shoulders slightly in a faux-massage as she did so, and across from them, Feuilly had fallen asleep - shattered from the previous night's work - stretched out in the sun, with a book on trigonometry on top of his head.

 "He's going to get quite a tan line," remarked Combeferre, and (as soon as she'd spotted the title of the book), Éponine rolled her eyes. They were sitting next to the barbecue, where Éponine was allowed to smoke, because according to Bahorel it would "improve the flavour" of the vegan sausages he was currently cooking. "And, being vegan, they don't taste of much else," he'd said good-naturedly, flipping the beef burgers as well.

"You know," Cosette said to him, "It's a good thing you're the cool sort of vegan," and Marius (using her lap as a pillow) agreed, and sipped from his Pimms. "Not the sort that would refuse to cook our food," she added, and then reached out a finger to wipe the shred of mint away that had lodged on his upper lip.

 "Well, I'm a cool guy," Bahorel replied, to snorts of derision all round. Jehan poked his head out from the treehouse which had apparently been built by Cosette's father - who had "donated" an obscene number of bread rolls to their spread - when she was first adopted, and it could still hold the weight of both Jehan and Courfeyrac.

 "I'm coming back down now," he called to the group, who waved bottles at him in agreement. "Shirts on," he reminded Courfeyrac, who grumpily forced his arms through the sleeves. "Your beach body, dear one, would astound people. Put them off their food. It's only fair on them to wear clothes," he reasoned, and pressed a kiss to Courfeyrac's nose, before half-shimmying down the ladder to land in the long grass. He wasn't wearing shoes.

"You know, you've always seemed like such a satyr that I'd half-expect you to have hooves," Grantaire told him solemnly. He'd just rounded the corner with Enjolras, and he had a smear of suncream - almost the same colour as his skin - daubed on his nose. Enjolras reached out a long finger to wipe it off, looking half-surprised at himself for making the gesture. They'd been together since the spring - together properly, at least, not just fucking on dirty mattresses - and had moved on to now fucking only on real beds (apart from that time with the sofa that they assured Joly had been an "emergency. A medical emergency, Joly. My balls would have exploded," Grantaire had said, straight-faced), and only insulting each other when they knew it would lead to spectacular sex.

 Enjolras smiled at him, and stretched out on the grass next to Combeferre, shirt riding up slightly to reveal his tanned stomach. "That's not fair," Courfeyrac said, pettily. "How can he go around exposing his hipbones, and I try to show just a little more flesh and I'm banned to the treehouse?"

 Musichetta blew him a kiss. "Oh, it's not that we don't want to see your flesh - we don't," she added hurridley, as he reached for his belt buckle. "It's just that when you take your top off, the, ah, evidence of your workouts - " Cosette stifled a laugh behind her, because he'd been to the gym once and by all accounts (Bahorel), he'd run half a kilometre before dashing to the vending machine - "is too distracting for all of us, and especially for Jehan. He took your belt off with his teeth -" and Jehan purred at her, and then starting to scratch the back of Courfeyrac's head until he was muttering half-formed obscenities under his breath, and he turned to press a fierce kiss to Jehan's smiling lips -

"Okay, guys, the sausages and burgers are done - and you too, stop making out for fuck's sake, this isn't the last days of Rome - " and they all turned to look at Bahorel. He slotted the barbecue fork into the pocket of the frilly apron that Éponine had made him wear, and waved his arms in exasperation. "You're putting me off my food and I've not started yet," he said sternly to Marius and Cosette, and Feuilly woke up behind him, face almost as red as his hair.

"Food?" he said, and forced himself upright, slapping Courfeyrac on the head (for he was looking at Jehan in a positively lecherous way), and siezed his plate, before elbowing Grantaire out the way to get to the food. "In the game of barbecues," he intoned, "you eat or you die," and Bahorel rolled his eyes before passing him a hot-dog, with a muttered "khal Feuilly" that everyone else pretended not to hear - and that was a mystery, the strange half-relationship they seemed to have.

 Jehan passed his plate to Courfeyrac and stretched languidly like a cat, hair full of freshly-picked daisies he'd rescued from the path of a lawn-mower, and waited for Courfeyrac to return bearing food. Their kitten, now half-grown, had travelled with them on a lead, darting after butterflies and pouncing on leaves in the road, and he rolled in the long grass, flattening it. His name would have been Cummings, but then they realised they couldn't inflict that on anything - and also, as Courfeyrac had said - "If he learns it, and responds to it, we might end up with a cat during sexytimes," and in response Jehan had rolled his eyes but pronounced solemnly "Holden", and so Holden (who was half-wild, which fit considering that his father was Grantaire's alleycat) had stuck.

 "I got you some more cider," Courfeyrac said brightly, passing him the bottle. "Lime and strawberry. I blame you for all my trips to the dentist," and he tipped his own bottle to his lips. He had a smudge of salad cream on his lip, and Jehan tried very hard to concentrate on eating his (organic) feta, but ended up pulling Courfeyrac's face to his instead, and he could taste the olives Courfeyrac had stolen from his plate. "I don't like olives," he'd told him once, in a tapas bar. "Well, no, I have mixed feelings. So I will take yours." and so it had come to pass. "Your lips are sticky," he told Jehan now, and Jehan tilted his head to the cider bottle.

 Grantaire raised an eyebrow, but the cynical look he was aiming for kept slipping into a wide grin, because Enjolras was playing with his hair. "You two, if you're going to be obscene - and look at the effort I'm making, and Joly hasn't even taken his cardigan off, even though it's pushing thirty degrees - could you please go elsewhere? I'm actually enjoying this," and Enjolras pressed a kiss into his hair.

 ("Regular sex," Combeferre had confided to Marius once, "seems to keep him a lot more docile. I'd even say submissive, actually. Take Grantaire away from him, and he's as prickly as ever - but with him, he still cares about all his causes, but he also remembers to eat as well," and Marius had beamed happily at him because he was soppy, and Cosette had rolled her eyes and taken his hand and they'd gone to fuck loudly in the next room.)

 "Well, on that note - you glorious creatures to whom I am not going to assign gender binary - " and the group rolled their eyes at Courfeyrac as a collective - "We'd better be off. Things to do. Sexy things," and Jehan kissed him to make him shut up, and then extracted himself.

 "Thank you so much for having us," he said to Cosette brightly. "Please thank your dad for all the stuff," and he brandished a baguette before putting it back onto the table. "It has been lovely," and he skipped over to the garden gate, dragging Courfeyrac behind him.

"We won't see them for a while," Joly said confidently, fingers tight around his asthma pump in case Holden slinked too close. "They'll be fucking like rabbits," agreed Éponine, but she couldn't keep the smile out of her face. Combeferre kissed her cheek, rosy from the sun.

 Jehan and Courfeyrac, meanwhile, had made their way to the back of the garden, where they'd all pitched their tents. "Really?" Courfeyrac asked, a note of amazement creeping into his voice. "A tent? I thought you liked stuff to be all romantic - " and he pushed open the heavy canvas door of their ridiculously huge teepee and fell silent.

 He looked around in amazement at the space inside. "I didn't know we owned this many cushions," he mumbled, and then snorted. "Rose petals? Really?" and he moved over to the mattress that Jehan had bribed Grantaire to help him move, and then he stopped talking altogether.

 "You planned this," he managed, gazing in awestruck delight at the duvet cover (roses and superheroes, because they'd been unable to choose and Éponine had got angry and made them one with both) from their bed in their flat. Jehan shrugged, but there was a wicked glint in his eye, and he half-vaulted over the table with the grace of an animal or a dancer.

"Well, I like being organised," he said, and then "We're going to fuck now," and the simple way in which he said it made Courfeyrac's brain turn slightly to toffee. "Okay," he replied, and then added "How would you like - "

 Jehan stalked over to him, braid slightly undone from the heat, and freckles glowing in the sunlight that crept through the roof. "We're going to have to be quiet. Very quiet, because everyone else is just through that gate," and he raised his chin to Courfeyrac. "So - " and he leaned forwards, until their lips were an atom-breadth apart. "If you talk - " and he stroked a finger down Courfeyrac's face - "I'll stop," and Courfeyrac nodded mutely.

 He couldn't keep quiet for long though, and even as he threw himself bodily onto the bed, he burst out with "You like Wordsworth - " and Jehan laughed into his chest and replied "Catallus 16? Ring any bells? Ask Grantaire," and then he tapped Courfeyrac on the chest. "Right, quiet now. You can't use your words - unless you want to stop, in which case you must say - " and Courfeyrac reached up a hand to stop him. 

"I've had the consent talk before, and I trust you. But okay. I promise," and Jehan grinned at him, and carried on, tracing a line down Courfeyrac's chest which burned white hot. Courfeyrac would have moaned, but instead he writhed, throwing his head back and shifting his shoulders. "Talk to me with your body," Jehan whispered, and Courfeyrac wrote sonnets with his hands and entire soliliqoys with his hips, and Jehan answered in bites of vilanelle, composing ballads with his tongue, and Courfeyrac managed to be quiet until he was shuddering under Jehan's body, hips moving to the meter of his thrusts, and then (after a caesura in which his mind roiled and he called to gods he didn't believe in, using languages he didn't know he could speak) he howled an animal cry to the heavens, cursing and worshipping in the same breath, and Jehan would have said something but instead he rolled his hips and bit into Courfeyrac's arm, choking out adoration against the sun-kissed and sweat-soaked skin.

  They didn't discover, until the next day, that the trees around their tent more-or-less drowned out every sound they made, or that Feuilly had put on the Beach Boys and thrown beers to everyone, but by that point, Jehan had started using Courfeyrac's bow-tie to knot his hands together.

 He was, perhaps for the first time, pleased that his mother had insisted he go to Scouts.

**Author's Note:**

> not sure if i'm going to continue 
> 
> hmmm let me know what you think


End file.
